Tomorrow Will Be Kinder
by notinuse4
Summary: Kurt has given up. He is sick of a life filled with pain and sadness. Blaine is just a scared boy who can't seem to forget that awful night. When both boys end up in a psychiatric ward, all hope appears to be lost... But maybe brighter days are coming their way.
1. Chapter 1

**The suicide letter I actually wrote for my English Controlled Assessment, but I thought I could use the idea and turn it into a fic, so here we are **

**WARNING: Talk and attempts of suicide, depression, and probably some violence somewhere down the line. If you are uncomfortable with any of these topics I urge you not to read!**

This is the end for Kurt Hummel.

I am sick of Karofsky and the other jocks constantly shoving me, yelling at me, humiliating me, and generally shitting all over me for being gay. I am sick of my friends being bullied because of me; because they dared to actually be kind to me. I am sick of my father getting rude letters and phone calls because he dared to accept his gay son.

I'm just sick of it.

That's why I am currently stooped over my desk, pen and paper in hand, preparing to write my final goodbye to the world. I'm going to miss Dad, but this is for the best, I'm sure of it. At least with this letter, he will be able to understand why I've done it, and I'll be able to convince him not to miss me, or blame himself.

I take a deep breath and prepare to pour my heart out onto the page.

_Dad,_

_Please don't be upset._

_I want you to know that this is the hardest choice I have ever had to make, but this is the only outcome for me. I know how protective you are over me since Mom died, but please understand that this is my best and only form of protection. This is the only way I'll ever be truly safe, as no-one like me is safe in this world. I hope that there is another world waiting for me where I'll be accepted, even though I have been told for as long as I can remember that people like me have no place in Heaven._

_For the last few months, I have felt like my life was a photograph. Like I was disassociated from myself, simply observing my miserable excuse for a life in snapshots placed before me. In some ways it was a good thing; it meant that I didn't have to feel the pain. The pain of their words piercing my skin like a deadly needle, then injecting me with poison that would linger in my veins forever more._

_But in other ways it was horrible…it was as if it wasn't my life; as if I was already dead and stuck here to stare at fading, rotting images of an innocent teenage boy, rejected by society, rejected by his peers, and forever told that he was 'unnatural' and 'an abomination'. The pictures are torn and stained, but not quite destroyed yet. The fading photographs still have some trace of colour left, if you try hard enough to find it._

_But I am tired of trying, Dad._

_I'm tired of constantly clinging onto a shred of hope that maybe one day 'It Will Get Better'. The greyness of the images is all I can see now, spreading their shadowy tendrils to every corner of my mind, every second of my life. No matter how tattered and grey the photographs of my life get, they still refuse to crumble entirely. I can never escape from this way of life, not while I am still living. Not while these immortal images are intact, glued together by the hate of the world. Only the beholder of these images, the beholder of this life, has the power to destroy and abandon them. _

_And that is just what I have done._

_Please don't be upset. I don't want you to grieve for me. You should celebrate. You should celebrate the fact that there is one less abomination in the world, and that I am safe from the constant torture, and so are you. I can stop inflicting pain on everyone around me, because wherever I go that hate comes with me. Think of this as a blessing, Dad. I'm taking the hate away from you and my friends. You'll no longer be known the Fag's dad. My friends will no longer be known as the freaks that want to hang around with ME, of all people._

_I don't believe in God. I don't think I want to, considering the fact that He made me this way then decided to tell everyone that it was wrong. But if He does so happen to exist, then I apologise now to him. I apologise for my actions, for destroying this so called precious life that he created. But if He made me into an abomination, a crime against nature, then maybe I'm doing Him a favour by taking my own life. Maybe I am the one photo he regrets taking._

_My last act: let this photo finally fade._

_Dad, please don't be upset. Know that you are not to blame for the way my life has been. I will always love you._

_Kurt._

_P.S. Please don't go into the bathroom Dad. Don't go in._

**Okay so short first chapter, but let me know what you thought! Before you all worry, NO I am not killing off Kurt. Reviews please!**


	2. Chapter 2

**EEP so I went to see Perks Of Being A Wallflower today and ohmysweetjesus it was BRILLIANT. Literally my new favourite film. It was funny and sad and the acting was great and the story was wonderful and it gave me so many feels! Seriously, if you can, GO AND SEE THIS MOVIE.**

**Anyway, here's chapter two!**

**(Blaine's POV)**

I've always been a quiet person. I just don't feel the need to communicate or participate as much as other people do, and I don't see a problem with staying quiet. Sometimes I quite like being quiet. I don't have to think too much about what to say to people, and they usually just leave me alone. They don't try too hard to involve me because I guess they don't really want me around anyway. I sometimes think that it'd be nice to have a friend, just one person to talk to, share things with, go places with… But then they'd know about me. They'd know about what goes on in my head.

They'd know I was insane, and that I've been put on a psychiatric ward three times now.

Most of the time I don't feel insane. But sometimes I hardly feel like myself at all. Those are the worst times, when I feel like I'm just going to disappear into nothing, getting sucked in on myself until I implode. I never feel particularly important or outgoing, but when I go through a bad phase I feel so irrelevant and invisible that it hurts.

Mom tries talking with me quite often. I remember the most recent lecture; she sat me down in the living room and said very seriously, "Blaine Anderson. I know that things are tough for you; I know that life hasn't dealt you the best hand in the game, but you really need to try. Just try to make some friends, talk to people, because it'll make you feel so much better. Just try."

I felt awful after that conversation. My mom loves me very much, and it kills her that I am this way. But no matter how hard I try, people just don't want to be my friend. Maybe they can sense that I'm insane.

I'm in the Cookson psychiatric ward this time because I had a minor breakdown. I was in a bad phase again. I remember just feeling hopeless and insignificant and so, so alone. Like I was losing myself. I couldn't do anything, I could hardly breathe and my vision was blurring with a mix of tears and dizziness, like my pitch black bedroom was suffocating me and swallowing me whole. I couldn't get the images out of my head, the images that have been haunting me my whole life.

I hate the dark. It's always been so daunting, so cold and empty. I have terrible memories of the dark… A locked door, rough hands, whispered words that I didn't understand…

NO. Don't go back there, don't think about it.

I don't really know why they bother sending me to Cookson, nothing ever comes of it. Maybe they just want to see me safely through my bad phases, make sure I don't do anything too drastic just to find myself again. Cookson isn't so bad. They feed me and entertain me, and I just stay away from the other patients. The workers there always try to get me to talk to people, to participate more and get involved. But I don't see the point of getting involved with people if I'll just disappear at some point.

I just stare out of the window blankly as Mom drives down a familiar road, lined with leafless trees, heading to the ward. I can feel her glancing at me periodically, but I don't acknowledge her. I just keep watching the road, counting the cars that pass us in the opposite direction.

I had just reached number 863, when we took a sharp right and pulled onto the vast gravel driveway leading to Cookson. The ward was located away from the main hospital, which was about half a mile down the road. It was a dreary grey building, only one storey high, with ivy growing over one whole side of it. The surrounding grounds were dull and too uniform, trimmed grass and little bushes cut into perfect square shapes. The trees that ran around the outside fence had few leaves at this time of year, and the skeletal branches swayed violently in the cold wind.

As my mom pulled into the little car park in front of the building and turned of the engine, I finally turned my head to look at her. Her face was calm and relaxed, but I could see in her eyes that she was upset.

I was always upsetting her.

"Look, Blaine… I know that coming here is hard for you. I just want you to get better. You deserve so much better, you deserve to be happy, and even though you may feel like you're in a bad place right now, these people are going to help you. You will get better, Blaine."

A single tear ran down her cheek, and she pressed her fingers into the bridge of her nose for a moment. I pursed my lips and looked down, heart racing as I prepared to say goodbye to my mom for god knows how long.

She sniffed and blinked a few times, clearing her head a little, before pulling me into a hug. She kissed the top of my head and whispered, "I love you, Blaine." It was all I could do not to cry.

We got out of the car, me carrying my single bag. I don't have a need for many possessions, and all I packed was the essentials, and my camera. I take my camera everywhere I go; photography helps me remember myself sometimes. If I take pictures of the places I go, it feels like I have a life to live, memories to keep.

But sometimes the pictures aren't enough. That's why I had to give my mother one final hug, and walk up into Cookson for the third time in my sixteen year life.

"Good afternoon, Blaine," the receptionist greeted me, recognising me seeing as I was expected to arrive that afternoon. Mrs Inglis was alright. She never pushed me to talk to her, not like some of the other workers on the ward. She was young, with dark brown hair that was always tied back, with one piece that would curl down onto her forehead. She would always joke about how it annoyed her and it looked like an Elvis quiff, but I liked it. It was something to remember her by, for her to remember herself by.

I have curls like that, but I gel them down. Sometimes I try to pull out one curl on my forehead, to remember myself with, but it never works for me. I get frustrated and gel it down instead, but I guess that's just one more thing to make me forgettable, unimportant.

Mrs Inglis handed me the necessary forms, and I filled them in as she called one of the ward attendants to inform them of my arrival. When I was done, I handed them back with a small smile, and a short, plump woman came around the corner into the reception.

"Hello! You must be Blaine Anderson!" Her voice was high pitched and nasal, and she was too perky for my liking. Her hair was bleached blonde and tied in pigtails, making her look like an overgrown toddler. She had bright blue eye shadow and bright red lipstick, and gave me an enormous grin as she bustled over. She must have been new to the ward. I decided already that I didn't like her. "My name is Cameron; it's wonderful to meet you!"

I just stared silently at her, and her smile faltered slightly before she recomposed herself into her factory made grin. "Come on then, I'll show you to your room!" She turned on her heel and waddled off in the direction of the patients' rooms, as I scurried to follow.

She took me to the room furthest from the reception, right at the end of the long corridor. It was average sized, and adequately furnished with a bed, cupboard, desk, and door that I guessed led to a bathroom. At Cookson there were only toilets and sinks in our own rooms; we had to go to the communal bathrooms to shower, and we could only shave under supervision.

"Make yourself at home, Blaine. You'll need to go to the social room in half an hour though; we're having a little party for today's newcomers." Cameron gave me another huge grin, and I honestly had the urge to slap it off her face. I didn't know what it was about her that annoyed me so much, but it was intense. I didn't mind it though, annoyance was good. It meant feeling. Feeling something reminded me I was alive, I was real.

"Newcomers? There are more?" I asked, and she seemed surprised that I had chosen to actually speak to her. I didn't care for her particularly, I was just curious. It was rare for there to be more than one new patient in a day.

"Yes, we've also had a young lady named Annabelle and a young man named Kurt join us today."

"What's wrong with them?"

Cameron gave me a bit of a stern look for my language choice, before saying "I don't think it's really my place to give away confidential patient information, is it Blaine?"

I just stared at her for a moment more before turning my back on her and walking over to the bed. She stood in the doorway for another few seconds, before reminding me to be in the social room in half an hour and shutting the door behind her.

I sat down on the edge of bed, bouncing up and down a few times to test it out. It was a bit too hard for my liking, but I couldn't bring myself to care too much. I kicked off my shoes and crawled under the covers, staring at the grey wall. I felt tiny and alone, and I squeezed my eyes closed.

That didn't stop a few tears escaping and dropping onto my pillow.

**Thanks for reading, let me know what you think?**


	3. Chapter 3

The first thing I became conscious of was a blindingly bright light shining from somewhere above me.

I screwed up my face and blinked rapidly, trying to get my eyes to adjust faster to this harsh intrusion, and as I did so I realised that there were voices too. They were muffled, but each word still felt like a thunder clap echoing around my skull. Was this heaven? Because I had hoped heaven wouldn't be quite so painful.

As my senses adjusted, I realised that I was not in heaven, but actually in a hospital bed. I looked around me groggily, and I saw several silhouettes out of the corner of my eye. I couldn't quite make out who they were, so I tried to sit up and get a better look, but as soon as I moved my eyes saw stars and my head swam. I dropped back down onto the skinny pillow with a groan, and tried to move my hand to rub my eye, but I could only lift my arm so far until there was a weird sensation in my arm and my movement was stopped.

I realised that I was hooked up to a drip, probably pumping in some blood and other fluids to replace the amount that was removed when I…

I got a sudden feeling of entrapment, and I panicked as I realised what this meant. I was still alive, still here. Still here where there is only pain. Where Karofsky and his army of Neanderthals still have control over my life, attacking me everyday. I writhed about on the bed, wincing as the tubes entering my arm pulled and strained. "No!" I yelled, "No no no!" I felt a pair of hands holding me down by the shoulders, a voice soothing me, but I continued to struggle against it with my heart racing and vision blurring.

I was still here, still trapped in the neverending cycle of pain and hatred. I had failed again. I was already a failure, a freak, an abomination, and I couldn't even commit suicide properly. What a weak, stupid excuse for a person…

"Kurt!" I stopped for a second when I heard my father's voice. My kind, loving father, who had always stood by me and accepted me. I'd failed him too. Just by attempting suicide I had failed him, but if I was dead at least he'd be able to move on. He'd be safe from the hatred too, he wouldn't have to put up with the shame of having a gay son. I let out a scream of frustration and sorry and thrashed around even harder on the bed. It was all wrong, Dad wasn't supposed to be here! He wasn't supposed to see me! Did he find me? He wasn't supposed to know until it was too late. I told him at the end of the note not to go in the bathroom, I didn't think he'd be home for at least another two hours, that way I'd already be gone when he got home…

I felt a mask get pressed around my nose and mouth, and all of a sudden my limbs became heavy and my eyes drooped. I let out a small whimper as my world went black once more.

When I came around again, I found myself strapped down to the bed. After my little outburst earlier on, I was even more tired and drained than I was when I woke up the first time, so instead of freaking out I tried to look around me calmly.

The room was small and painted a sickly pale green, with beige curtains and a meagre vase of yellow flowers at the end of my bed. My father was sat with his head in his hands in a chair in the corner, and my heart broke at the sight of him. It was my fault that he was still suffering.

"Kurt?" The voice that I heard wasn't my dad, but he jerked his head up immediately to look at me. His eyes softened when he saw I was awake, but he still looked so upset. I felt awful. Even more awful than usual. "Kurt, are you with us?"

I turned my head to the right and took in the sight of a woman with soft blonde hair and a kind expression leaning down slightly to look at me. Her eyes were scanning my body and face, so I nodded to assure her that I was fully conscious.

"Hi there, Kurt, I'm Doctor Ferguson. How are you feeling?"

"Awful," I replied, voice cracking and throat rough. She gave me a pitying look and moved to write something on a clipboard that had been lying on my bedside table.

"You gave us quite a scare there, Kurt. We're all very glad you're still here though."

"Yeah well I'm not." I snapped bitterly, regretting it instantly when I saw the pain and shock flash across my dad's face. "What are these things in my arms for?"

"They're just there to maintain your body fluids and keep you properly hydrated. We didn't know how long you would be unconcious for." Doctor Ferguson explained, still looking at me with that scrutinising and slightly pitiful expression.

"How long was I asleep for?" I hoped it wasn't too long. I remember how it felt waiting for my dad to wake up after his heart attack, and I don't wish that upon anybody.

"Only 28 hours. You woke up about three hours ago, but we had to put you under again because you had a minor panic attack. Do you remember that?"

"Yeah," I muttered, "How could I forget?"

Doctor Ferguson smiled slightly, before checking my clipboard and saying, "Your vital signs look good and you seem to be coping better than when you first woke up. I'll send a nurse in in a moment to remove those tubes and put on some clean bandages." With a nod and another small smile, she left the room leaving me alone with my dad.

I sat up carefully, trying not to disturb the tubes too much, and looked at my dad. I felt horrible, guilty for what I did but at the same time oddly defiant.

"Oh Kurt…" my dad came over and wrapped me up in a tight embrace. I couldn't move my arms enough to hug him back, but I let my whole body relax into his. I heard him sniffle and knew he was crying, but for some reason I couldn't bring myself to cry.

"I'm so sorry Dad, I'm so, so sorry," I muttered, voice muffled against his shoulder. He loosened his grip and pulled back a bit to look at me, but kept his hands on my arms. "I didn't want to make you sad, Dad, I was just tired. It was too much, I wanted _out_, and-"

"No, kiddo, don't talk about it. Just be happy that you're still here. I promise you that you'll feel better, I won't let anything else happen to you. You're gonna be okay. I love you." He pulled me back into a hug, and we sat there together until the nurse came in.

Once I was unhooked from the machines and I had fresh bandages covering the wounds on my wrists, Doctor Ferguson came into my room again to speak to me and my dad. I had no idea what was going to happen now, were they just going to let me go? Would I have to go back to McKinley? I cannot go back there. I would rather drop out of High School and risk never doing anything of worth with my life than go back to that awful place.

"So, Kurt, Mr Hummel, as you have probably guessed we need to discuss what will come next for Kurt. Now I'm not a psychologist, but it's pretty clear that anybody who is driven to suicide is not mentally stable. Therefore, Kurt, you have been signed up to the Cookson psychiatric ward. It is completely optional of course, but we highly recommend that you go. It will give you a break from school and a chance to work through your depression in a safe and accepting environment, with trained psychiatrists to talk to whenever you need them. Then when you feel better, you can come out and go back to your normal life living at home, and hopefully be able to cope a little better. Does this sound okay?" Doctor Ferguson explained it all carefully and gently, while Dad sat in quiet contemplation and I just stared at the ground.

"I don't really mind what happens to me from here on out. But if this place is supposedly going to make me feel better, I'm in, because my last method of escape evidently didn't go too well." I said, trying to ignore the cringe that crossed my dad's face at the mention of my 'last method of escape'.

"How long will Kurt have to stay there for?" My dad asked, looking at me with a worried expression.

"It could be anything from six days to six months. It all depends on how long it takes for Kurt to feel better. He will be able to stay there for as long as he needs, and the ward just asks for a weekly donation to help cover costs of food, accommodation, staffing etcetera."

Dad sighed, lifting off his cap and running a hand over his scalp. "Well kiddo, I really want you to feel better. You really scared me with what you did." I glanced up and met his tear filled eyes. "I love you, Kurt. I don't know what I would have done if I'd lost you."

"I'm sorry." I whispered, but he shushed me.

"I don't want to hear apologies. It isn't your fault that you feel this way. Nobody should have to put up with what you did, and you are so strong for staying true to yourself, being who you are. But even the strongest of us have a limit. Now you may think you've reached your limit, but I know you can carry on. So if this Cookson place is going to help you see that, then I want you to go."

Cookson was a drab, grey building, with even drabber grounds surrounding it. I was lead down a long corridor, after saying goodbye to my dad, by a way-too-perky-for-this-type-of-place woman called Cameron. She was wittering on about something but I was too busy trying to ignore her annoying nasal voice to take in what she was saying. Something about a social room and two other newcomers today.

She stopped at the room which was second from the end of the corridor, and opened the door for me. I walked in and dropped my bag on the floor, taking a quick glance around the average sized room. The only furnishings were a single bed, bedside table, a desk, and a small wardrobe. Cameron pointed out the bathroom and told me I had ten minutes to settle in until all the patients were required to go to the social room to welcome the newcomers.

I left my bag where it was, except for one picture in a delicate silver frame. I placed it gently on the bedside table, fighting back tears. It was a picture from when I was six years old. It was Christmas, and my mom had taken me shopping with her. In the mall there had been a Santa's Grotto, where you get your photo taken with all the winter decorations. I was sitting on my mom's lap, both of us with huge smiles on our faces, surrounded by pretend elves and reindeer, with cotton wool snow on the ground. That was one of the few experiences with my mom that I can remember, and that photo is one of my most prized possessions.

Even then in that ward, when I felt so empty, the sight of my mother's smile lit up the room just a little bit.

A knock came at my door and I heard Cameron's voice calling, "To the social room now, please!" I groaned and stood up from where I was sat looking at the picture, and trudged to my door. I opened it and stepped out, almost banging into somebody outside the door.

He was a little shorter than me, with a mess of dark curls on top of his lowered head. His eyes were downcast, and his hands were in his pockets. He was wearing jogging bottoms with a navy blue hoodie that said 'Dalton' on the back. He looked up when we bumped, and my heart stopped at the intensity of his gaze. His eyes were a clear hazel, but they were also extremely sad. His face was red and puffy and it was clear that he had recently stopped crying. He mumbled a sorry and sped off down the corridor, leaving me standing quite bewildered.

_Stop it,_ I thought to myself, _your sexuality has gotten you into enough trouble. Just leave it alone, he probably isn't even gay. _As I started walking, that evil voice in the back of my mind which I had been hearing more and more recently said, _even if he was gay, what would he want with you?!_

The social room was big, with several sofas and beanbags arranged in a U shape, with a large TV screen on the wall at the open end. People were scattered around them with various appearances. An emo girl in a black lace nightgown. A small blonde boy sitting on a beanbag staring at the floor. An African-American girl with an annoyed and sarcastic expression, sprawled across two seats and filing her nails. A small blonde girl, curled up in a ball looking terrified.

And Kurt's neighbour, perched neatly on the edge of a sofa, hands placed on his lap, looking calm but eyes still downcast.

"Oh, hi Kurt! Come on and sit down, then we'll get started." The voice belonged to a young woman, sitting on the sofa next to my neighbour. Her thick brown hair was tied back and she had a bright smile, but kinder than the forced perkiness of Cameron. She gestured for me to join her, so I came over timidly and sat opposite her and the neighbour, next to the girl filing her nails. "Okay then. Hi everybody, for those of you who don't know my name is Rachael. I'm here Monday to Friday during the day, and I also pop in every now and then on weekends. There will be other attendants here at other times, so you'll always have someone to go to if you need anything. Because we have three new visitors here, we're going to go round and all say our names, okay? If you don't want to, just shake your head and I'll introduce you." Rachael nodded towards my neighbour, gesturing for him to go first.

He looked up quickly, cleared his throat, and said, "Oh, uh, my name's Blaine."

Blaine. Blaine. _Blaine. _The name echoed in my mind and I found myself whispering it under my breath, checking how it felt in my mouth. After a moment I realised that Blaine was staring right back at me, his hazel eyes boring into mine. The expression on his face was one of interest, but he also looked slightly panicked and confused. I blinked and looked away, feeling a blush crawl up my cheeks. _Focus, Kurt._

By this time three people had introduced themselves and I had missed them, so I tried to listen. The emo girl was called Heather. The tall boy next to her was George, and he had a scarily deep voice. The pale girl with red hair was Tanisha. The little blonde boy shook his head and continued his in-depth study of the floor, but Rachael introduced him as Aaron. A skinny blonde girl was Annabelle, and she was new today as well. The black girl next to me was Nicole, and _oh hello you're supposed to talk now_.

My throat went dry, I couldn't breathe. There were ten people staring at me, and if they heard my voice they would know. _They would know._ They would know I was gay, because as soon as anyone heard my voice they knew. Most people could tell just by looking at me, as I've always had quite feminine features. But if these people heard my voice, they would know I was gay, and I'd immediately be back where I started. A freak. A target. A magnet for all the hate and prejudice these people might possess.

I continued to mouth like a fish, body rigid, until Rachael got the hint and said, "This is Kurt, our final newcomer."

It felt like a failure. Like I had just had a test and didn't know a single answer. Rachael carried on talking, but I couldn't hear her. I couldn't even say my own name. How stupid was that? Kurt Hummel had been reduced to a snivelling coward who can't even introduce himself to a couple of people. A few months ago I'd have been singing show tunes with them.

I sat silently in the social room for the whole Rachael and some of the other patients were talking, not feeling up to joining in the discussion. As soon as the session was over I went straight back to my room and curled up under my duvet, absolutely exhausted for no reason whatsoever.

I avoided Blaine's eyes as if my life depended on it, because I knew that if I looked at him, I'd see disappointment.


End file.
